For the Love of Liverpool Read online

  For the Love of Liverpool

  Ruth Hamilton

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  One

  ‘So what the hell happened to you? Did you drive through a hedge backwards in a tractor?’ Tim Dyson threw up his hands in a gesture of mock despair. Although tempted to manufacture a chuckle, he managed to contain his false mirth. ‘You come here to see me twice a month, give or take, face set in stone, no feelings on show – God forbid you should turn to worry or laughter or a bit of grief. And once, just once, you arrive flustered and two minutes plus some seconds late. Beads of sweat on your brow, too. And it’s all about a woman? A bloody woman and a stranger to boot?’

  Alex Price, hands still dug deep in pockets, shrugged. ‘She wasn’t wearing boots. Her shoe broke. Those skyscraper heels should come with a government health warning.’ Don’t look at me like that, as if you expect me to be normal. I don’t do the emotion thing. Shit, I need to get out of here. There – that’s a feeling, isn’t it? Impatience?

  ‘For your benefit or for hers? The health warning, I mean.’

  Alex continued to gaze out of the window at Rodney Street, the place where some ills might be cured and the bank accounts of many customers became noticeably diminished. It had to be one of the costliest streets in Liverpool. ‘She was . . . different,’ he admitted finally.

  ‘Different from the not-quite-Stepford Wives you employ at your head office?’ Tim kept his tone light. ‘Do you clone them like Dolly the sheep? Tell me, do your female employees work on batteries or do they need winding up each morning? Come on, Alex – react, for heaven’s sake.’ Tim studied his old mate, the slope of his shoulders, the hands hidden deep in his pockets.

  Sometimes, riling and tormenting his friend from childhood actually provoked a reaction, but this evening Alex remained quiet while Tim rattled on. ‘The Price girls aren’t ugly, but they’re not pretty, and none will see thirty-five again.’ He waited for a moment before asking, ‘Do they make you feel safe?’ But Alex was still refusing to rise to the bait.

  Ah. The man swung round. ‘You’re the one winding me up, Tim. Well, you’re trying to.’ Alex paused. ‘I should have gone for actual therapy to someone I don’t know, but old school tie and all that, misplaced loyalties, and—’

  ‘And I’m familiar with what happened to you.’ Tim rose to his feet and walked round the desk, placing himself within reach of his complex, damaged friend. ‘I was there, remember? Look, I’m happy to be your dustpan and brush, but you have to let the crumbs hit ground level before I can sweep up. How did you feel? You must feel something, sometimes. I repeat – how did you feel, you aggravating bastard?’

  ‘What? When?’

  Sighing, the psychologist shook his head. ‘When you saved that woman from having a nasty accident, possibly a broken ankle – how did you feel?’

  After a contemplative pause, Alex answered. ‘Shaken. And . . . odd. I felt odd.’ She looked through me, as if those bright eyes scorched all the way to my spine, but I’m not going to say that, because you’d have a field and flag day with it. Should I go for counselling rather than rehash the same old arguments with my best friend? I suppose the result would be the same, because I built this cage myself.

  Here came progress, Tim decided. Odd was an emotion, wasn’t it? ‘Right. Good odd, or bad odd?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Well, that’s true enough, I suppose.

  Tim returned to his chair. Getting Alex to express feelings was like pulling a tiger’s teeth without anaesthetic. ‘Not that I’ve any experience with tiger dentistry,’ he muttered.

  ‘What? Are you considering becoming an animal behaviourist? Because I’m not sharing a sofa with an orangutan.’

  ‘Alex, you’re driving me crazy. I’ll be the one wearing a back-to-front coat in a padded cell.’ Tim closed his laptop. ‘A short time ago, you helped a woman who had broken a shoe as she stepped out of a cab. That affected you.’

  ‘Did it?’

  ‘And when you arrived here a few minutes late – and you don’t do late – you were preoccupied. In fact, you looked like a man about to face a firing squad.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yes. Was she pretty?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Eyes?’

  ‘Two. Yes, she had two. Two is clearly her favourite number, because she had two legs, two arms and two—’

  ‘Colour of the eyes?’

  ‘Blue.’

  ‘Hair?’

  ‘A lot of it. Medium blonde, I think would fit. Dark for a blonde, too light for brown. She was sad. Not just about the shoe, but about life. Downturned mouth. Or perhaps the shoes were Louboutins – a lot to lose. Are you satisfied with my description?’

  ‘Ah. Are you after my job?’

  Alex shook his head. ‘I haven’t time for your job. Too busy cloning sheep and Stepford Wives.’ At last, he sat on the couch. ‘The dreams are back.’

  ‘Nightmares?’

  ‘Sometimes. Occasionally, it’s all been a mistake and we’re together, the whole family, including an improved Susan, having a meal or running around on a beach somewhere. She’s your next client, by the way.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘The broken-heel woman. She’s sitting in your waiting room, barefoot and carrying one shoe.’

  Tim Dyson raised the lid of his sleeping laptop and clicked the screen on. ‘Ah, yes. But you’re here to tell me about you. Go back to the dreams, because it’s vital that you talk about the ones that stick in your mind.’ He should have read the new woman’s notes earlier on, but he’d had a difficult day.

  Alex had had enough of talking about his dreams – a little went a long way. Unable to sit on the couch a moment longer he jumped to his feet, donated the extra time to Cinderella, ordered his friend to keep the woman here, and made for the door.

  ‘Cinderella?’ Tim asked, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. He could use those free minutes to scan the neglected notes.

  Alex stopped and turned. ‘That story was about shoes, right?’

  The therapist stayed where he was; once Alex Price made a decision, there was no holding him. ‘You’re going for shoes, aren’t you, Prince Charming?’

  ‘See you in a fortnight. I’m off to find glass slippers. I wonder if she has ugly sisters?’

  Alone, Tim Dyson looked at the notes about Miss One Shoe. She seemed to have some baggage, although certainly not enough to fill the hold of a jumbo jet, and her early history was not as dramatic as Alex’s. He read on. Oh, but it became dramatic, heavily so. Two injured people, then. ‘And there’s chemistry,’ he said to himself. ‘Alex felt odd. Strange, since he’s felt nothing since the 1990s. Or he pretends he’s felt nothing. This has the potential to become one big bloody mess.’

  He continued to stare at Miss One Shoe’s notes, but his mind refused to focus, too full of thoughts of his close friend. Alex Price was a talented man. Locals had been heard to describe him as a bloke with so many fingers in so many pies that they didn’t know whether to offer him gravy or custard. The reason why he hired the Stepfords was simple – attractive women affected him, just as they affected all healthy young men. Price females needed to be plain.

  ‘Bugger this – concentrate!’ he ordered himself. His next patient, Katherin
e Owen, had OCD, PTSD, abandonment issues (weren’t they a Yankee invention?), anxiety, depression and now a broken shoe. Panic attacks were frequent and free-floating, usually with no immediately visible trigger. And the police had . . . ‘Oh, my God.’ No way. No way should Alex Price take an interest in Miss Owen. A bell rang deep inside Tim’s brain. It had been in all the dailies, had merited bold headlines. Details? He would find them.

  But he couldn’t put a stop to a relationship that hadn’t started. He was a qualified physician, so his mouth was glued shut by the Hippocratic Oath. Yet he had also become a psychologist because listening was often better and more effective than writing prescriptions. Bugger. Oh, well; it was time to face the music.

  He pressed the buzzer and she floated in. She wasn’t exactly barefoot; she wore stockings or tights, and the surviving shoe dangled from her left hand.

  ‘Good evening, Miss Owen.’

  She waved the bereaved footwear. ‘Sorry about the disarray, but I lost a heel. This shoe is now a very sad object, as its identical twin is deceased. Requiescat,’ she whispered, placing the item on the floor.

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ Tim said, a friendly smile visiting his face. She was feisty for a depressive. He paused. ‘Do you feel like talking?’ After Alex, someone willing to communicate might make a healthy change.

  The woman fixed him with eyes of a startling shade of blue; this one wasn’t merely pretty – she was a bloody stunner. English rose complexion, full lips, good figure. ‘You have my history?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Again, he waited; again, he wished he’d done a better job with her notes. He amended his statement. ‘The more salient points, anyway.’

  She raised her beautifully shaped eyebrows. ‘If you’ve read the best bits, then you know I’m a mess.’

  Tim shook his head. ‘I know no such thing, Miss Owen. You’re a client. I have a tendency not to attach labels to people who’ve travelled a hard road. Are you taking medication?’

  She nodded once. ‘Anti-depressants, Diazepam and Armagnac.’

  ‘Not all at once, surely?’

  ‘Panic attacks equal one and a half Diazepam and a slug of brandy. If it works, don’t knock it.’

  Tim grinned at her. He’d met this type before, of course. She was confrontational, challenging and well educated. Miss Owen aimed barbs at herself in order to deflect attention from her pain; she didn’t want pity, hated empathy, was almost totally guarded. Tall and elegant, she surely accepted and embraced her beauty – or did she? If not, she would hardly be the first occupant of this room to underestimate his or her own physical attractiveness. Alex Price was similar. Tim was realistic – he knew that he himself was more than just average-looking, and some had even called him handsome, but Alex and this woman were in a different league. ‘Promise me that you won’t ever use all three at the same time.’

  ‘No, I’m not suicidal. The don’t-jump-off-the-bridge pills I take at night. I’ve been prescribed those since long before the . . . incident. I was diagnosed several years ago. Well, misdiagnosed might be nearer the mark. I am not bipolar, not psychotic. My illness was created by . . . circumstance.’

  He watched as a pale pink blush travelled across her cheekbones. The woman didn’t know him from Adam, and it was her first appointment. This was getting-to-know-you time, and she might not like him as a therapist, so he took the usual mental step back. ‘No need to talk about the details just yet,’ he advised her, ‘but I’d like to know something about you.’

  She inhaled deeply, exhaled through her mouth. ‘I was born in London, raised in London, attended Imperial College, London, worked in London. I had to leave after the event. So I’ve given up my name, my home and my job.’

  ‘Your daughter?’ he asked, his tone gentle. He watched the pain in her eyes, the way her shoulders suddenly dropped slightly.

  ‘Is abroad with my parents. I’m hoping she’ll be bilingual in a few years.’

  Tim nodded encouragingly. ‘So your mum and dad are giving her a sense of continuity?’

  ‘Yes. And in case you’re wondering, the answer is no, I didn’t find it easy to let her go. Fortunately, my parents have been taking Amelia abroad since she was very young – just for holidays, of course.’ The woman straightened her spine. ‘My daughter was and is my world, doctor—’

  ‘Tim. Call me Tim.’

  ‘Right, Tim. I’m Kate and I had to disappear. People will be searching for a brunette with a four-year-old daughter.’ She almost smiled at his shocked expression. ‘Yes, it’s a good wig, one of several in the same shade. I have two more styled in up-dos. Real hair. I sometimes wonder whether some poor nuns have contributed their crowning glory to help me find safety. The point is, I had to keep my little girl protected and her mother alive, since grandparents do not last forever. They’re a very close couple. If one died, the other wouldn’t cope with life, let alone with a small child. Suicide is not an option for me.’

  ‘I understand.’

  She closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, they blazed with a mixture of grief and anger. ‘Sleep eludes me,’ she stated baldly. ‘And I’m living proof that sleeping pills are not the best idea. Their efficacy fades, and eventually I had to take them with alcohol. A dessertspoonful of brandy for a panic attack is one thing, but a large glass of red wine with pills at bedtime is a slippery slope, and I have too much to do.’

  He nodded. At least this one was talking.

  ‘I was a set designer for London theatres.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I loved my job. My qualification is in chemistry, but I’ve always been what my father calls arty-farty, so I followed my heart, not my extremely boring honours degree.’

  ‘Not easy,’ Tim said.

  ‘It is if you know the right people, some of whom managed to be the wrong people. Anyway, that was then and this is now. I’ve bought a crumbling mess in Blundellsands and I shall renovate and style it, sell it, then start again with another piece of dilapidation. It’s just a bigger stage on different levels, and I know I can do it. Apart from a few tradesmen coming and going, I’ll be alone. No one here knows me, and that makes me feel safer.’

  ‘And hopefully, not buried under crumbling brickwork,’ Tim chuckled.

  She laughed. ‘God, I never thought of that.’

  He had to ask. ‘Do you have what is semantically termed a significant other? Someone you left behind, perhaps?’

  Her reply was immediate. ‘Amelia is my only significant other. Without her to live for, I’d probably have been dredged out of sediment in the Thames some time ago.’

  ‘Witness Protection?’

  ‘The police know where I am, yes.’

  ‘Bodyguard?’

  ‘Two failed police dogs. They respond if I tell them to kill. They also accept those I nominate as friends, so they’re not dangerous unless they need to be.’

  ‘Joke?’

  ‘No. I trusted humanity for a while, but . . . well, the way things were, I knew plenty of bodyguards. They existed on the rim of criminality, and although I’m not saying that all security people are open to bribery, my own experiences have made me wary. I trust my dogs. They have worried to death many a second-hand mannequin no longer fit for shop windows. As long as I don’t shout the k-word in a certain tone of voice, they’re tranquil and quite good fun. I love them, they love me; it’s a simple enough equation.’

  The conversation died a natural death. Kate made a second appointment before picking up her shoe and leaving for the waiting room, where she found herself in the company of Alex Price and three rectangular boxes on the floor in front of him. ‘Ah,’ was all she managed.

  He fared slightly better. ‘Choose shoes,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Poetic.’ She waited while he removed lids. ‘No stilettos,’ was her next statement. ‘I suppose you’re trying to help me avoid another accident. Thank you.’

  He handed her the broken shoe she’d left behind in the street. ‘This may be repairable. I
got your size from it, so it was useful after all. The shop had closed, but he opened up for me.’

  ‘You’re an influential man, then?’

  ‘According to legend, yes. I own the block of shops, and he gave me these. Apparently, they’re very last year.’

  She bent to study the footwear.

  Alex, determinedly unimpressed, shifted his gaze from a pair of legs that seemed to go on until a week on Tuesday. She was beautiful and was, therefore, an item to be avoided.

  ‘I like them all,’ she said. ‘Tell me where the shop is, and I’ll pop in and pay what I owe.’

  ‘No need. They were taking up space and gathering dust. Keep them.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is the shoe shop man sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They bent simultaneously to pick up a box, and their fingers collided for a fraction of a second. Each backed away quickly from the pulse that passed between them, shorter than a heartbeat, sharper than a honed knife.

  Kate straightened and looked into dark chocolate brown eyes. She thought she glimpsed a cocktail of fear, confusion and hurt. Then the eyes cleared, and she saw nothing at all. How did he manage that, and why did he do it? The man wasn’t merely handsome; he was beautiful, with a square jaw, untamed hair, a straight nose and a damned good body. But she got the distinct impression he didn’t like himself. Could she help him, and could he help her?

  Alex lowered himself into a chair, his gaze magnetically locked with hers. This was great, just great – wasn’t it? He’d run business meetings full of sharks and wild cats almost biting each other; he’d bidden high and partly blind on the stock exchange, and he’d been ruthless when buying companies, smashing them up, selling off pieces and people . . . and here she was. Such bright, clear eyes she had. They were eating into him with questions to which there were probably no answers, and he noticed in her face – just for a moment – something that was no stranger to desire. Had he met his Waterloo? Because there was no denying that she was very lovely.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said again, her voice shaky.

  He managed to look away, but continued to feel the burn of her eyes. Burn? Blue was a cold colour . . . ‘Would you like me to drive you home?’ Where had that come from? His mouth seemed to be working of its own accord; no connection whatsoever to his brain.